


Bat Jokes Ain't Funny

by DracoMaleficium



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: All Fluff For Now But There'll Be Angst Too Probably, Crack, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Humor, M/M, This Is Seriously Just a Dumping Ground for the Weird Trash in my Head, tags will be added as i go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... except for when they are.</p><p>Dumping ground for various Batjokes drabbles inspired by one-word prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lamp

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I'm still kinda new to the DC universe. Given that, there may be OOCness, inaccuracies and other sins committed by newbies. There is no single timeline either, or a set universe, though I am mostly inspired by the comics. It's basically me having shameless fun with two idiots who have recently, for reasons unknown, taken over my life, and I have to warn you, the more DC tries to shove scowling men in my face, the more I want to make fun of them, so. Expect crack.
> 
> (But some angst too, eventually, because that's just how I roll and I don't think I'll be able to function without it for long. Tags and rating will be adjusted as more drabbles are added.)
> 
> If you want to see what I can do with other one-word prompts, you can drop them in the comments here or over at [my tumblr](http://dracze.tumblr.com). Feedback gives me life. 
> 
> Many thanks to the poor souls who have indulged me and given me prompts to play with - you are the best. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Lamp."
> 
> Takes place in a strange timeline where Joker is rehabilitated and _thinks_ he's helping Bruce fight crime, though actually he's mostly just getting in the way.

“So, Crafty Joe, we meet again.”

Bruce tried not to facepalm too audibly in the shadows. “Joker.”

“Shhhhhhhh, baby, I’m getting into the spirit of things!” his partner hissed.

In the chair, the unlucky goon shifted nervously and tried once again to struggle with the rope. He wasn’t going anywhere, but Bruce couldn’t fault him for trying. Not with the grinning maniac directing the lamplight straight into the poor bastard’s face. 

“Tell us where you were on the night of December 15!” Joker demanded, slamming his fist on the table. The effect was somewhat ruined by the giggle which escaped him immediately afterwards. 

“I don’t know nothin’, I —”

“Lies! We know you were with old Pengy, stuck on lookout while he made scarce with the loot! WHERE DID HE GO?!”

Bruce sighed and grabbed Joker by the arm. “J., seriously. Tone it down.”

Joker’s expression, or what Bruce could make of it in the darkness, was the very picture of hurt. “Moi?” Joker lay a theatrical hand on his chest. “I’m only taking my cues from you! That’s exactly what you sound like when you’re interrogating people, baby!”

Bruce gritted his teeth. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Yeah, you kinda do,” offered Crafty Joe, meekly.

Bruce and Joker looked at him. He cowered, sweating.

“You can’t just yell at people like that,” Bruce said, turning back to his partner.

“You do,” Joker pointed out. “And Gordon does. And all the cops in the movies do, too. Besides, I just want to point out that if we did it _my_ way —”

“No.” Bruce turned to Crafty Joe, still whimpering with the single streak of lamplight falling right across his face. He whirled on the man, making sure the cape did what Tim referred to as The Thing, and snarled, “Where is the Penguin?!”

Joker sighed and mouthed, “Hypocrite.” Bruce ignored him. Crafty Joe’s bottom lip was quivering, and Bruce knew a confession was coming. 

Later, on the way home, he pointed out, “The lamp wasn’t really necessary either.” 

“Oh Brucie, must you suck the fun out of everything?” Joker stretched in the passenger seat and offered him a lazy grin. “If I’m gonna be a lawman, we need to do this right. I never half-ass anything, baby, you should know that by now. And besides, I’ve always wanted to stick a lamp in someone’s face.”

“There’s more to policework than that.”

“So you keep saying, darling, but you’re the one in the batsuit. You don’t get to lecture me on theatrics.”

“He’s got you there, Sir,” said Alfred through the comm. Joker laughed, free and gleeful, and Bruce tried very hard not to smirk. 

“Shut up, both of you,” he said mildly. 

“We’re using the lamp next time, too.”

Bruce sighed. “Fine.”

“And you’re gonna be the good cop.”

“That, I’d like to see,” Alfred interjected once again, and Bruce wondered when exactly did the two of them start ganging up on him.

But then again…

He glanced to the side, where Joker was trying and failing to fit his long, long legs over the dashboard. The smirk fought its way through despite Bruce’s best efforts.

There could be worse fates.


	2. Alibi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Alibi"
> 
> Established relationship in this one. Also poor Gordon. (Erskine is a cop I made up for story purposes.) 
> 
> Warning for guns and Joker's typical obnoxiousness.

Jim Gordon breathed out and tried to will the frantic beat of his heart to slow as he waited for the last man to confirm his position. This was important. They were going to do this by the book, or die trying, but by God he was bringing the clown in tonight and personally deliver him to Arkham and make _damn_ sure the bastard stayed there for once. Enough was enough. He fixed his eyes on the dimly lit windows above the toystore and started to count.

Then, he motioned for the men to move in and kicked the door down. He charged on ahead up the stairs, gun in one hand and badge in the other, and neither hand so much as twitched as he barged into a bare, dim living room and trained both on the green-haired, white-faced menace seated at the round table along with several goons and… 

Playing cards?

“Jimbo!” Joker crooned, leaving his handful on the table and pushing his chair back as though about to stand. 

“Not one move,” Jim growled, aiming for Joker’s heart. “If I hear so much as a giggle from you I swear to God I’m gonna blow out both your kneecaps, you grinning —”

“This is all very pleasant, Jimmy boy,” Joker said amiably as he slowly seated himself back down between his goons, who were eyeing Jim’s men warily, “but I have to admit you have me at a disadvantage. I’ve been a good boy, brushing my teeth and helping old folks across the road and everything!”

Jim nodded at Erskine and held the gun steady as the man strode up to Joker and roughly bent him over the table to cuff him. Joker’s men looked ready to jump to their feet, but Joker tut-tutted at them to stay put, that damned grin never leaving his face. He was staring straight at Jim as though he was the only one in on the joke, and Jim absolutely loathed that expression.

“Last night,” he growled, “the Art Gallery. We found the portraits you’ve defaced. The security guards are in a coma. Was it worth breaking your parole for a cheap number like that?”

Joker blinked. His eyes went round, and the smile morphed into an expression of surprise which, on anyone else, would probably look genuine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jimbo.”

“Save that for the jury,” Jim snapped. “Bring that filth in.”

“No, really!” Joker protested as Erskine pulled him roughly back to his feet. “I mean it! You think I wouldn’t brag if it was me?”

“You left your damn calling card at the crime scene!”

“ _What?!_ ” Now Joker looked livid, and for the first time since last night Jim felt a stab of hesitation. Joker struggled in Erskine’s grip and it took three more men to hold him as he trashed, yelling, “Who dared?! Who?! I’m gonna cut out their eyes and serve them hard-boiled, those lousy damn im _postors_ —”

“Hold up.” Jim allowed the gun to dip just a fraction, staring straight into the Joker’s outraged, furious eyes. “You saying you really didn’t do this?”

“No!” Joker trashed some more, but he wasn’t going for the gas, thank God, and Jim could see no knives slipping out of his sleeves. The goons, too, stayed put, though uneasily so, gripping their cards hard enough to bend them out of shape. “I haven’t done anything so common in years! Seriously, Commish, who do you take me for? Besides, I have an alibi.”

“You think anyone’s gonna believe _your_ alibi?” Jim spat. “You’re going with us for questioning, Joker, and that’s that.”

“Actually,” said a deep, familiar voice from the shadows, and Jim _hated_ when the guy did that, he really fucking did. “He does have an alibi.”

“Batsy!” Joker called, face immediately transforming into glee like the outburst from a few seconds earlier never happened. Jim sighed and risked a glance over his shoulder. His gun stayed up. 

“All right,” he said, “talk. You have ten seconds.”

“He does have an alibi,” Batman repeated, stepping into the light. “I can vouch for him. It wasn’t him, Jim.”

“You tell ‘em, darling!” Joker sang. 

“Shut up, J.,” Batman told him, with the same kind of tired, barbed fondness he usually reserved for Robins.

And just like that, Jim knew he didn’t want to be a part of this conversation any second longer. Joker’s obnoxious self-satisfied grin and the hesitant twitch in the corner of the Bat’s mouth already told him way, way too much.

Jesus.

Shaking his head, Jim signaled for his men to step away from Joker, who smiled at them benevolently as he made a show of straightening the lapels of his suit. Jim turned back to the Bat.

“Really?”

Batman opened his mouth, and closed it. He looked like he wanted to get out of here as badly as Jim did, and Jim was going to need a _lot_ of Scotch to wash that impression away.

“Try the Joker gangs,” Batman suggested in a whisper as Jim’s men started to file out of the room. “My money’s on the Chaos Clowns. I’ve been tracking them. You’ll find them holed up over at the docks.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Jim finally let the gun arm drop, and glanced at the Joker as he slid it into the holster. The clown grinned back and winked at him. Then, he turned to Batman and winked again, and poked his tongue out to lick his lips, and that was it, Jim was _out_ of there.

“At least the clown’s not making any more trouble,” Erskine offered quietly as they drove back to the GCPD and the mountain of paperwork waiting for them inside.

“Let’s not,” Jim grunted. “I really don’t want to think about it.”

“Sure thing, Commish.” Erskine was quiet for a while, until he asked, “So which one of them do you think is the —”

Jim swerved to the side so abruptly Erskine yelped out loud.

He really, really needed that drink.


	3. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Socks"
> 
> Established relationship once again, though here it's in its early stages. The batfam is slooooowly trying to wrap their heads around it. 
> 
> Is there a word for a multitude of Robins? Because it applies here.

Bruce stared at the tortured remains of wool wrapped enthusiastically in layers and layers of festive wrapping paper. Curiously, it didn’t explode. Nor did it ooze gas, or buzz anyone, or do something else sharp and deadly. There was just the wool, and the note underneath, with a doodle of the Bat logo which showed more enthusiasm than skill and the imprint of a kiss in telltale red lipstick. 

Bruce made sure the boys couldn’t see that last bit; as soon as he was done scanning the gift, the card found its way into the inside pocket of his vest. His children were traumatized enough by the whole affair as it was, and anyway, he wasn’t sure he could survive the commentary. 

Which, of course, was already well underway.

“Wow,” said Dick, looking over his shoulder. “Wow, that’s certainly… um.”

“Thoughtful,” Tim offered from the floor. “Right? That’s thoughtful, isn’t it?”

Over by the hearth, Jason snorted, making sure everyone in the room knew the whole thing was below his dignity. Damian had no such qualms. He sidled over and grabbed one of the _things_ from Bruce’s lap, and turned it over and over, his face settling into the intent grimace that usually appeared whenever he tried to puzzle a case right along with Bruce. The _thing_ managed not to fall apart in his hands, but only just barely.

Finally he decided, “Socks. The clown knitted you socks.”

Bruce swallowed. His throat was feeling strangely full, but that might just be the eggnogg. “It would appear so.”

“Wait, those are socks?” Dick pushed his way closer and peered at the _thing_ in Damian’s hand. His eyes went huge. “Holy shit, you’re right!”

“And they’re purple,” Tim observed. He was trying very hard not to giggle, and Bruce was proud to see his shoulders only barely trembled. Good boy. 

“What are those… green thingies?” Damian asked, poking at the wool. He seemed fascinated by it, in his own special way, and Bruce’s heart grew just a little bit warmer.

“It looks like he splashed paint all over them,” Dick wondered. “Or maybe vomit.”

Damian pulled a face. “Ewwwww.” He peered a little closer. “Maybe it’s a face? Or blood?”

“Blood’s not green.”

“It’s a present from the clown. Maybe blood looks green to _him_ , who the hell knows?”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Jason huffed, “they’re bats.”

Everyone in the room, Bruce included, turned their heads to look at him. Jason shrugged, all bristles and ruffled feathers, and pointedly stared into the fire while his jaw twitched. “It’s obvious,” he murmured. “You idiots.”

“D’you know what,” Tim said quietly, “I think he may be right? They kinda do look like bats.”

“Very tortured bats,” Damian judged. “Bats which should be put out of their misery.”

“But bats,” Dick agreed. He looked at Bruce. So did Damian and Tim, and even Jason flicked his eyes up at him for a minisecond. 

Bruce looked right back, hard, at all of them. He set his jaw into the most intimidating expression he could pull without the cowl. “Not a word.”

That did approximately fuck all to stop them laughing, but honestly, in his heart of hearts Bruce didn’t mind. Laughter was progress, and gave him hope that maybe he could make it all work, somehow. He snatched the one sock from Damian’s unprotesting hand and laid it out next to its twin in the box, and sat back, his chest swelling with warmth. 

Maybe he should worry how the hell Joker managed to smuggle his little Christmas gift into the Manor… 

… Later. Bruce had a feeling he was going to find an entirely different sort of present in his bedroom as soon as he got upstairs, and, well. 

The socks could wait.


	4. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Snow"
> 
> Once again established relationship, only Joker has moved in at this point and is bonding with his adoptive Robins. 
> 
> In his own way.
> 
> (This one is even more stupid than the others, I have no excuses, I'm so sorry.)

“Father,” Damian complained, “the clown’s cheating again!”

Bruce swiveled around in his chair to fix him with a tired glare. He pointed at the pair of high-tech binoculars hanging from Damian’s neck. “And what is this?”

“I had no choice! He’s dressed all in white and hiding in the snow!”

Bruce sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. Even years later he still had those fleeting moments when the realization of what exactly his life had become hit him like a roadsign to the face, and whenever that happened he usually needed a minute or so to readjust his idea of what reality ought to be versus what reality actually was.

When he opened his eyes, his son was still standing there, petulant as only teenagers could be, with the offending binoculars still glaring at Bruce from around his neck. He obviously expected Bruce to do something about the situation, and Bruce had a feeling he would need Alfred to brew him the special coffee tonight. The headache was already building in his temple.

“You wanted a challenge,” Bruce pointed out. “He obviously gave you one.”

“I didn’t expect him to put on a skullcap and bury himself in the snow!”

The corner of Bruce’s lip wanted to twitch. Bruce firmly didn’t let it. “Well,” he offered, “you _are_ technically playing hide and seek.”

“Certainly not,” Damian protested. “It’s a tactical exercise in stealth and detection.”

“So. Hide and seek.”

“We’re not —” Damian started, but then obviously thought better of it. He huffed, whined how Bruce just didn’t _understand_ , and stalked up the stairs back into the Manor. 

Bruce watched him go. Then, he turned back to the computer, to the screen directed at the Manor grounds. He scanned the Joker’s vitals and breathed a sigh of relief - everything seemed to be in order. 

Still, he was going to make sure Alfred prepared enough blankets and hot chocolate for five as soon as Damian dragged Bruce’s creatively self-destructive other half back in. Hiding in the snow may have been Joker’s own idea, but Bruce had no doubt the clown expected to be royally coddled and fussed over upon his return, and Bruce would be sleeping on the couch tonight if he failed to deliver.

Which was fine. Bruce could play the caring nurse if it kept Joker happy. In fact, he was looking forward to snapping pictures of him all swaddled in blankets and with a chocolate mustache right above those brown-stained lips. 

He leaned back with his legs stretched over the controls and enjoyed the show.


	5. Pasta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Pasta"
> 
> Oh, Bruce. It's way too fun making you suffer.

Bruce was in such a daze he didn’t even hear Alfred calling his name through the comms until Dick took it upon himself to answer. 

He was still giggling. Bruce found it difficult to resist the urge to press the Eject button.

“Sir, is everything all right?” Alfred sounded concerned. “You seem… preoccupied.”

“That’s because he is,” Dick told him, way happier than he had any right to be. “The Joker just asked him out on a date.”

There was silence. The Batmobile thrummed as it sped along the dark road. 

Then Alfred said, “Took him long enough.”

Bruce groaned. In the passenger seat, Dick’s head flew backwards so hard it hit the headrest, and he couldn’t calm down for a good long while. “It wasn’t even that he asked,” he choked out between fits of laughter, “he had the entire thing set up and ready! Here we are, running around the funfair, following the trail —”

“Dick,” Bruce said.

“ — and it leads to this restaurant, right, and I’m thinking, it’s gonna go down like it usually does, smoke and mirrors and bizarre toys and knives and stuff like that —”

“Dick.”

“But then we burst in, and there’s a table, and candles, and two plates set up, and he’s sitting there in a purple _tux_ and making googly eyes at Bruce and one of the henchmen is playing the damned _violin_ —”

“Dick!”

“And another henchman serves pasta and red wine and Joker just sits there and calls Bruce baby and says all this stuff about finally doing it properly and, what was that he said about Lady and the Tramp —”

“That,” Bruce growled, “is _enough_!”

“Sorry.” Dick shrugged, then turned back to the comm. “You should have seen his face, Alfred, he looked like he just realized he forgot to put his batpants on.”

“We apprehended him and took him back to Arkham,” said Bruce curtly. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Yeah, you know, except for the part where he didn’t kill anyone or even resist. He just laughed and made bedroom eyes when Bruce cuffed him. And he promised to do even better next time. God, I’m gonna need a whole stash of mind bleach to get _that_ memory out of my mind.”

“There will not _be_ a next time.”

“You gotta admit though, that violinist henchman was pretty good. Wonder where he finds these guys.”

“We’re done talking about this, Nightwing.”

“You wish. I’m gonna tell Babs to send this story to everyone on the mailing list. Wait till Barry hears about it, I think he had a betting pool going.”

“You will not tell anyone anything,” Bruce informed him, “unless you want me to tell them about the banana split incident.”

Dick actually gasped. “You _wouldn't_!” 

“Even for you that was low, Sir,” Alfred commented.

Bruce said nothing and just kept on driving. Dick sighed. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he conceded, pouting. “Just one more thing. You didn’t exactly say no.”

“Say no to what?”

“To the Joker’s idea. The date? You never said no.”

There was silence. Bruce kept on driving. He also very pointedly did not look at Dick, but he could still feel him smirking the rest of the way home.


	6. Cafeteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Cafeteria"
> 
> It's Harleen Quinzel's first day at Arkham and she's not exactly thrilled with what she's learning about the place.
> 
> Only tiny amounts of Batjokes in this one, sorry. The idea wanted to be a bit more serious this time around.

The Joker was, strictly speaking, not allowed in the asylum cafeteria. None of the high security inmates were, and anyway, he tended to pocket the plastic utensils and — well — _utilize_ them, often in increasingly imaginative and horrifying ways, and it only took three escapes with the aid of sharp plastic fork tines for the orderlies to learn their lesson.

Sometimes, when he behaved, they would allow him to sit with the other inmates in a straightjacket and with his feet bound. That inevitably drove the patients into a frenzy, though, so most of the time, the Joker ate alone.

At least, that was the explanation Dr. Lancer gave Harleen as he gave her the tour of the Asylum on her first day here. Harleen couldn't say she was thrilled with the information. 

“Isn’t that counterproductive to his therapy?” she asked, following Dr. Lancer along the dimly lit corridors. Her heels click-clacked against the sterile polished floors, the sound bouncing on ahead in a rhythmic staccato, and she made a mental note to get herself a new, quieter pair. She enjoyed the sound, personally, but she imagined it would be better not to give the patients a way of identifying her, and besides, it could be upsetting for the more… fragile of Arkham’s residents. 

Dr. Lancer let out a snort which had about as much to do with a real laugh as a dog barking. He shook his head.

“Dr. Quinzel, we gave up on trying to treat that bastard long ago. Now it’s containment only. If you know what’s good for you you’ll stay far, far away from him.”

Harleen bit the inside of her cheek. She could feel the familiar hot bile of indignation clawing up her throat, but she pushed it down. _Stay cool_ , she told herself. _Don’t go picking fights on your first day._ Still, she couldn’t just leave it at that. “But surely if we deny him even the simplest opportunities for re-socialization —”

“Go and read the files,” Dr. Lancer said, his smirk drier than Harleen’s Statistics textbooks. “Maybe those’ll convince you. And anyway, when he gets really riled up, we call for the Bat. That usually calms him down a bit.”

Harleen stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. Her fingers curled around the edges of the clipboard. “Wait,” she said. “The Bat? You don’t let the Joker out to socialize with the other inmates, but you are okay with calling in the Bat to bully and harass him?”

“Harass?” Dr. Lancer gave her a strange look. “Harleen, he _asks_ for the Batman. Constantly. The only times he’s anything approaching peaceful is when he knows the Bat is coming. Check the security tapes. Or don’t, it’s enough to creep anyone out.”

Harleen’s eyebrows were plunging, pulling the skin on her face tight. She took a deep breath. “So what exactly happens during those… visits?”

Dr. Lancer shrugged. “Hell if I know. I try to stay away from all that and just do my job. They talk, I think, the Joker probably tries to get that obnoxious flirt on, the Bat stands there and broods at him, the usual. Once or twice I think the Bat brought him a meal. Probably to get him to talk. Come on, I want to get this tour over with.”

Reluctantly, Harleen followed him down the rows of cells towards the labs, but the conversation itched at her like a half-healed scab and soon enough, she was opening her mouth again. “I can’t imagine it’s beneficial for the Joker to be constantly exposed to the source of his psychosis like that.”

“Oh, you’re one of those.” Dr. Lancer sighed and rolled his eyes, instantly making Harleen regret she’d ever tried to be polite to the condescending prick. “Look, sweetheart,” he said, turning to her, “you’re new here. I get it. You have all those grand ideas about changing the world one inmate at a time, and all those theories you think are new and original. The Joker is the ultimate prize in your mind, and I bet you lie awake at night picturing all those awards you’ll get if you only manage to get to him. Well, better accept it now: you won’t. Ever. Better quit now while you’re ahead and focus on those of our patients you can actually help.”

Harleen’s fingers twitched on the clipboard, nails dragging over paper. She held them in place, even through the hotcold tension in her chest that urged her to slash at his face. “I’ll thank you not to psychoanalyze me,” she snapped. “I’m not a patient. I’ve come here to do a job.”

“Just trying to help you out, pet.”

“Dr. Quinzel.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” Harleen decided, stopping once again. “Thank you for the tour, Dr. Lancer. I’ll see myself out.”

He grumbled something at her, but she didn’t stick around long enough to listen.

In truth, she hadn’t been all that sure she was doing the right thing by choosing Arkham as her place of residency, but now the sense of purpose flitted in her belly with that restless kind of energy that drove her all the way through med school. She had a mission now, and with every step she took, it was becoming more and more clear what she would have to do.

The first thing would be to convince Dr. Arkham that the Bat shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the Joker anymore. 

The second?

She would get the Joker back into the cafeteria.


	7. Hay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hay."
> 
> Established relationship, with hints of smut. Also a very special guest star appearance. Please give it up for [Bat-Cow](http://dc.wikia.com/wiki/Bat-Cow)!

Bruce _thought_ he heard the footsteps first. In any case, he was the first to react, and put a hand between Joker’s mouth and his own.

“Shhhh,” he said, moving so his weight kept Joker pinned down, fist tightening in dirty green hair. 

“Bats,” Joker moaned. Too loud. The sound pressed hot into Bruce’s hand and a tongue tried to pry past his fingers, and Bruce’s cock throbbed eagerly in his pants. He forced himself to tear his eyes away. 

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

“It’s just the stupid cow,” Joker protested. Bruce’s eyes made the mistake of glancing his way again, and caught on the hay in his hair, the dirt on his skin. Joker’s bright pink dinner jacket lay open underneath him, most likely ruined, a sacrifice to combined forces of dirt and Bruce’s impatient fingers. “Come on,” Joker crooned, pushing his body up against Bruce’s. “Kiss, Batsy.”

He stretched, presenting his neck. In the darkness Bruce could just make out imprints of his own kisses already darkening against stark white skin, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop himself from leaning in to leave some more. 

Instead, he pushed himself up, just enough to see into the entrance to the stable. Scarce light trickled inside from the lantern by the door, but he and Joker were mostly hidden, tucked into a shadowed spot by the far wall. Anyone coming in would _maybe_ manage to discern vague shapes that didn’t quite fit with the rest of the shadows, but, with any luck, not much of anything else. 

And a moment later Bruce was damn grateful for that. If they’d only happened to stumble onto a spot a little closer to the light, Damian Wayne would not have been spared an eyeful of his father’s bare ass.

“Hello?” The glow from the lantern played across his suspicious face as Damian stepped inside. “Father? Is that you?”

Joker giggled, loud and entirely unashamed. Bruce glared at him and then turned back to Damian, pushing himself up to his feet and pulling his pants back up. “Yeah, it’s me,” he called. Years of practicing self-control kept him from clearing his throat, but it was a close call. “We were just… We… Well, J. wanted to meet Bat-Cow.”

“I didn’t believe she existed,” Joker offered, indecently delighted. 

“Get dressed,” Bruce mouthed at him. 

Joker made a show of rolling his eyes and added a sigh for dramatic effect, but, thank God, when Bruce offered him his hand, he took it. He even went so far as to do up his fly. 

“Bat-Cow is right here,” Damian said, pointing to the animal in question, which stood by the door chewing on her hay with a sense of deep philosophical calm that Bruce often envied. 

“Yes, well…” Bruce thought for a minute as he held out the wrinkled, dirty dinner jacket for Joker to slip back into. “We were just going to feed her.”

“Brucie was going to feed her,” Joker interjected, “I was going to paint her purple, like the Milka commercial.”

Damian crossed his arms across his chest. Standing there in his own black tux, with that comically serious expression, he looked adorable, and Bruce would have appreciated it under any other circumstances. As it was, he hoped to hell Damian still couldn’t see them, but he was Bruce’s son and had already spent a good few years under Bruce’s tutelage. He would have taken note by now of their labored breathing, and soon he was going to spot hay all over their clothes, which Joker wasn’t even trying to dust off, and - fuck, Bruce was too late reaching for Joker’s hair. His other half ducked under his hand and strode towards Damian, grin firmly in place and his shirt sinfully open.

“I was saying to your daddy, Brucie darling, you need more color in your life,” he babbled, stopping next to Bat-Cow and looking at her like a fond uncle about to pull candy out of his pockets. “More gentleness. I could even add some green to her, too, here, here and here. She’d look so lovely! Alas, your dad is a great big sourpuss and didn’t really take to the idea.”

Damian wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on Bruce, who reluctantly stepped out of the shadows to join them. Damian’s sharp eyes lighted on Bruce, and then Joker, and the damning evidence tangled in Joker’s wild hair. The corners of his mouth dipped into a pout.

“You were being _indecent_ ,” he accused. “In front of Bat-Cow!”

Joker’s shoulders shook. The first bout of giggles was already past his lips. “Well, not so much in front of, more like… to the side…” he offered before laughter rendered him incoherent.

“Unbelievable!” Damian’s hands flew up in exasperation, as though _he_ was the parent here and Bruce was his adolescent son caught with his hand down his pants. “You leave me alone at that _boring_ party and you take your clown to have a quick tumble with poor Bat-Cow standing right here?! She’s pure! She doesn’t deserve this!”

“Damian —” Bruce tried, but Joker was faster, and slung his arm around Damian’s shoulders, still shaking with high-pitched giggles.

“You see, lil’ Robin,” he said amiably, “it’s like this. When two incredibly attractive people, like your Daddy here and your good old uncle Joker, when these incredibly attractive people get horny, see, they feel these _urges_ , and they gotta —”

“I know about sex!” Damian snapped, pulling a disgusted face and pushing Joker away. “I’m not a child!”

“Interesting.” Joker turned to Bruce. “Did you give him The Talk? Or did Talia? Please tell me it was you and Jeeves’ got it on tape.”

“We’re leaving,” Bruce decided, grabbing Joker by the arm. “I’m sorry, Damian, I’ll be back down to the party in a moment.” Even though Damian was right and the party was, in fact, incredibly boring.

“Make it half an hour,” Joker sang, with parting chuckles. Bruce started to drag him out of the stable. Behind them, Damian made retching noises, and Bruce thought he could hear him comforting Bat-Cow as they got further away.

“That was uncalled for,” he hissed, still dragging Joker, fingers closing easily over one bony arm. 

“I was sexually frustrated. And your kid’s fun to goad. He’s like a less muscly, more stabby mini-you, even the pout’s the same.”

Bruce stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. “I never want to hear you say that again.”

“Well.” Joker stepped up and rubbed himself against Bruce’s side. “I guess you’re gonna have to find a way to shut me up, baby.”

Bruce’s eyes zeroed in on the darkening hickeys. His stomach went tight. Joker’s grin didn’t even have time to properly settle in before Bruce was kissing it right off his smug, smug face.

They ended up taking longer than half an hour, and Damian didn’t talk to Bruce for the rest of the week.


	8. Bubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Bubble"
> 
> Warnings for lingering post-domestic abuse trauma, and also for some frank discussion of bodily fluids (meaning, pee). Gotham City Sirens decided to take over that one, because they're awesome like that and Harley just breaks my heart, okay?
> 
> Some bonus Harley/Ivy on the side. 
> 
> (Not a native English speaker. Please excuse my atrocious attempts at writing an accent.)

“Okay, okay, okay.” Selina wiped the tear from her eye and turned to Harley. “Your turn. Embarrassing ex stories. I bet _you_ have enough of those to keep us going the whole night.”

Harley felt something cold poke her on the shoulder, and turned to see Ivy offering her a refilled glass of wine. Her smile was soft and delicate, like she was trying to say, “It’s okay, I got you.” Harley grinned at her and took the glass, and breathed out. It _was_ okay. It was. She was.

She leaned into Ivy, drank the delicious wine, and discovered, all over again, that she could search her memory with only the slightest stab of all that _weak Harley_ feelings now. It still surprised her sometimes,and it wasn’t like _weak Harley_ was completely gone, but Ivy was smiling at her, gentle like her plant friends, and Selina was watching both of them with her pretty knowing half-smile as cats purred in her lap, and Mr. J was far away and — Harley took a deep breath — and he didn’t even care. He never had.

Harley drank some more, planted a loud kiss on Ivy’s cheek, and took a moment to think about it.

“Have I told you about that time all of Mr. J’s shirts shrank in the wash?”

“Only about sixteen times,” Ivy teased, lightly tugging on one of Harley’s ponytails.

Harley considered. “How about that time he lost a bet to Eddy and had to —”

“ — take a walk down the docks in nothing but his undies, yes, we know.” Selina’s smirk grew. “We were there, Harl. I distinctly remember bringing popcorn.” She stroked one of her cats thoughtfully for a moment. “I believe Harvey still has the pictures. I might have to go steal them and paste them to the Batmobile.”

They all had a good laugh about that, and then Harley took a moment to really consider. It was still difficult sometimes to sort the embarrassing from what _weak Harley_ used to consider “adorable” “glorious” and “heart-warming,” and then there was the “hurtful,” though she’d been getting better and better at distancing herself from the other two. Would the girls consider Mr. J accidentally getting bitten by Bud embarrassing? (Harley could still remember how he had snapped at her as she had cooed over his bleeding hand and wrapped it snug and tight.) Or that time he’d actually fallen asleep faster than her and mumbled “Bats” over and over? Or maybe that time Harley had tried to get him in the mood and he hadn’t been able to get it up? (He’d blamed it on her and pushed her off the bed. It wasn’t a night she liked to remember.) 

And then the _perfect_ memory struck, and Harley grinned into her wineglass. 

_Time for a little revenge, you pasty-faced creep._

“Okay so,” she started, and felt warm when Ivy tightened her hold around her, “the thing is, Mr. J loooooooooves bubble baths. And I mean LOVES ‘em. The hotter the better, and he’d make me go and get all those fancy soaps and scents, and he’d never let me get into the tub _with_ him, which, you know, big deal, his loss, I don’t even care.”

And she didn’t, anymore. For the most part. Ivy clinked their glasses together, and Selina toasted her with a hearty “His loss indeed,” and Harley could read in both their smiles the promise of a huge, delightfully long bubble bath with all the fancy soaps they could steal. She giggled, the tightness from her chest dissolving by a knot or two.

“Anyway, so, one night we pull a bank job and the Bat almost catches us, but we manage to get out somehow and get back to the hideout and Mr. J says, Harleeeeey, run me a bath. So I do. I go all out with the bath salts and everything because he’s all covered in bruises and I figure, well, it’s the least I can do. He goes in. Shoves me out. Tells me to guard the door. Only, after like fifteen minutes I had to pee real bad.” She paused for dramatic effect and glanced to check that both girls were listening. She grinned when she saw Selina’s expression, and she knew Selina wasn’t _really_ a cat but Harley liked to imagine her as one anyway, and in Harley’s mind her ears were pricking up. Harley took another sip and cleared her throat.

“So I go, Mr. J, I need ta pee! And he’s like, Go to the other bathroom! And I go, But there’s only one! And he says, Just hold it. So I try. But it gets ridiculous and I call again and he says nothing so I figure, I’m just gonna go in, it’s not like he ain’t seen the goods anyway, right? I figured it was about time we started acting like a real married couple. Y’know, like a couple who ain’t ashamed of peeing an’ such.” In hindsight, that was another thing that should have tipped her off, but _weak Harley_ had never noticed the clues, and when she had she still pretended she hadn’t. It had been easier that way. Or so she used to think. 

“Ugh.” Ivy pulled a face. “Please tell me this story isn’t going where I think it’s going.”

“Yeah, don’t make us picture Joker having some happy private bath time,” Selina agreed. 

“Oh, it’s much better than that,” Harley promised, and man, if it didn't feel _good_ to finally get that story out. “Y’see, there’s no lock on the door on account of it being one of the dingy hideouts, so I go in. And he’s there, in the tub, with all the bubbles, only the bubbles ain’t the only thing in there with him. There’s a toy. A _bat_ toy. And he’s playing with it. Making noises and cooing. He stops when he catches me standing there looking, and we kinda stare at one another for a minute or so, and then he says, Close the door. And I do. I forget all about the peeing. We never said a word about it ever again. But I did go looking later and I found out he was keeping a whole stash of bat toys under his bed. In every hideout! I don’t even know where he got them all, they were just… _there_!”

“Okay,” Ivy judged, “I think the Joker’s officially outcreeped himself.”

“You think so now, listen to this.” Harley let her grin turn nasty. “The toys weren’t the only thing I found. There was also a mask. Just like the Bat’s.”

“Oh ewwwwwwwww.” Selina jerked so suddenly one of her cats got displaced and meowed at her in protest. “I don’t even want to know why he’d want that.”

“I don’t know, Selina, I think you of all people should understand,” Ivy teased her. “You seem to have quite a thing for the big bad Bat yourself.”

“That’s different,” Selina protested, proud and haughty as ever. “I never went and got myself a Bat keychain, not to mention a mask. Because I’m classy, and not some thirsty obsessive little creep who’ll blow up a kindergarten just to get Senpai to notice him. That’s just pathetic.”

“Yeah,” said Harley, with force, “it is.” She took a deep breath. “ _He_ is. They deserve each other.”

And then the breath rushed out of her, and man, was it good to finally say it out loud. Her friends clapped. Ivy kissed her hair. And Harley felt warm and glowy and not weak at all.


	9. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Break"
> 
> I've been reading "Batman: Europa." Can you tell?

“Okay,” Bruce panted as he smashed a fist into the head of one robot and planted his foot in another’s chest, “this is not how I expected this holiday break to go.”

“Really?” Joker asked next to him, twirling in place and sending his knife to carve into four robots in one fell swoop. “That’s exactly how I expected it would go. Your life is pretty predictable, darling.”

“Really?” Bruce reached out to pull a handful of wires out of a robot which was trying to sneak up on Joker from behind. “You call this predictable?”

“Oh absolutely.” Joker leapt over Bruce’s shoulders to drive both his knives into the cold mechanical eyes of another machine, then kicked it at two others trying to get at them. “Face it, baby, you can’t go anywhere without attracting all sorts of trouble.”

“To be fair,” Bruce smirked, giving Joker’s foot a boost as he fought off a robot that just tried to pull his cape, “most of that trouble was usually caused by you.”

“Well, yes. I’m trouble, and you attract me.” Joker laughed, breathless and exhilarated, as he poured Joker toxin into the cracks between the armor plates of the nearest robot. “But it wasn’t me this time, cross my heart.”

“I didn’t think it was you,” Bruce confessed, sending another three robots to the ground, “but now I kind of do. _Was_ it you?”

“You should know I’d never interrupt date night with anything as crass as this.” Joker actually sounded offended as he sent wires and screws flying all over Cracow’s main square. “We had champagne cooling and everything! Interrupting our only proper holiday in the past three years is frankly rude.”

Bruce let his smirk grow. He really didn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever had sent the robots crashing into their hotel room just as they’d been getting started on the shrimp. Joker had been looking forward to this trip for _months_.

“Tell you what,” he offered as he got started on the last few remaining machines, “a nice, warm jacuzzi soak after we’re done here?”

“Oooooooooooh!” Joker kicked the last of the robots in the faceplate disdainfully and rearranged the lapels of his suit. “Now you’re talking.” 

He inserted himself under Bruce’s arm as the last mangled robot gave a pathetic beep, and patted him companionably on the butt. “Be honest, Batsy baby,” he said over a grin. “You’d have been bored out of your mind in three days if nothing like that happened.”

“Maybe with anyone else,” Bruce acquiesced. “With you? I don’t think so.”

Joker giggled, then wound his arm around Bruce’s neck and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. 

Maybe there was something to what he’d said, though, Bruce thought, urging Joker to keep walking. They were both buzzing with adrenaline now, Bruce’s muscles ached pleasantly from the exercise, and the rest of the night was shaping up to be… interesting, if Joker’s giddy step was anything to go by. Maybe they both needed this.

Maybe they were both absolutely useless when it came to taking a break.


	10. Siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Siblings"
> 
> More Robins! And Christmas! And domesticity!
> 
> ... with an unexpected dash of seriousness. Set in the same AU as "Socks", a year later.

“Let me guess,” Damian said as he opened the door for Dick, “you got one too?”

“Um.” Dick balanced the package under his arm as he kicked snow off his boots. “Yeah?”

Damian sighed and stepped aside. “You’d better come in. Drake’s already inside, and he’s _wearing_ his.”

“Wow.” Dick followed Damian inside the house, throwing his coat on the rack. Then his brain actually caught up, and flashed him a mental image that was in equal amounts disturbing and hilarious, and he prodded Damian on the shoulder. “Are _you_ wearing yours?”

“Hell no. I don’t care what stupid holiday it is, I refuse to debase myself like that.”

Dick rolled his eyes. He did _not_ miss the hallmark Wayne dramatics. But, his brain pointed out to him helpfully, if _he_ got one, and Damian got one, and Tim, that meant… 

“Do you think Jason got one too?”

“Probably. It seems everyone did.”

Okay, that was kind of priceless, and Dick laughed so loud the echo bounced off the staircase. Then he stopped, because, holy shit. “Everyone? You mean Bruce too?”

“Ha. No.” Damian smirked that up-to-no-good smirk that usually meant something painful or extremely unpleasant, or both, was about to happen to someone within the next minute. “Father got socks. Again.”

“Okay,” Dick decided, “I think I like ours better then. At least they don’t look like something a cat might throw up.”

“I caught Father wearing those things in the cave the other day,” Damian confessed, voice dropping to a scandalized whisper. “I think he actually _likes_ them.”

“Ugh.” Dick’s face twisted into a grimace before he managed to catch himself, and Damian nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. 

At least there was one thing to be said for the clown’s presence in the mansion, Dick thought, darkly amused. It gave him and Damian, and even Jason and Tim, something to bond over. 

Even if it was mostly horror.

“Well, he does like _him_ ,” he said aloud. “I don’t think Bruce’s taste can be salvaged by this point.”

Damian simply groaned, and Dick felt, not for the first time, an odd pang of sympathy for the kid. It couldn’t be easy, living in Wayne Manor these days. Lord only knew what you could unknowingly walk in on, and no, Dick was _not_ going to follow that train of thought any further because he had plenty of permanent mental scars already, thank you very much.

But at least Gotham was much safer these days. Mostly. The other rogues still got up to all sorts of trouble, but now that word got out that Joker was more likely to team up with Batman than with them, many of them were starting to seriously reconsider their career choices. It was one thing to go up against Batman, or any of the family — it was quite another to suddenly have to factor Joker in their crime-planning. Dick almost felt sorry for them.

Sometimes.

Which didn’t mean that it made things okay, after everything Joker’d done to them. But he was trying, in his own way, and he was ready to do anything for Bruce. Literally. 

And now, apparently, he was trying to bond with _them_. Which, okay, they were Bruce’s family, and technically Joker was part of it now, so that meant they were — _shudder_ — his family as well. So Dick supposed it made sense. 

As much as any of it made sense, and Dick really wished he didn’t have to try and puzzle that out now, or, when it came down to it, ever.

“Okay, they’re in here,” Damian said, stopping by the doors to the parlor. “Go on in.”

Dick’s finely honed suspicion levels spiked instantly. “You’re not going in with me?”

“I’ll be right behind you, I’ll just… I need to check on something,” Damian assured him. While actually _trying_ to look innocent. Nice try, kid. 

“Oh no you don’t.” Dick grabbed the scruff of Damian’s sweater and held on firmly as he pushed the door open. “If I’m about to be subjected to whatever the hell’s in there, so are you, you little schemer.”

“Let GO!” Damian tried to wrestle free. 

But it was too late. Dick was already dragging him into the parlor, and looking around, only to find…

“More Robins!” Joker exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. “Wonderful! Come on in, bird boys, we need your help decorating the tree!”

Dick stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes rested first on Joker, wearing a floppy Santa Claus hat, a purple jumper and a grin that should be impossible on any normal human face, and then on Tim, who was kneeling by the tree holding some of the most hideous tree ornaments Dick had seen in his life, and, yes, wearing his Robin sweater. 

His had glasses. Hysterical laughter tried to bubble in Dick’s throat, and he wasn’t all that sure he could hold it in.

“Um, hi,” he offered. He cleared his throat and settled for the safest thing he could think of. “Where’s Alfred?”

“In the kitchen, cooking.” Joker strode towards them, and Dick had to fight the impulse to reach for his weapons. “Come on, come on, both of you, we need your acrobatic skills for the top parts!”

Damian was almost out of his sweater and making a desperate dash for freedom. Joker caught his shoulder, terrifyingly fast, and steered both him and Dick towards the tree, cheerfully humming _Winter Wonderland_ and ignoring Damian’s cries of indignation. Dick didn’t struggle, mostly because he was kind of blindsided and wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. He glanced at Tim and silently mouthed, “What the fuck?”

Tim only shook his head, looking miserable. 

“Papa Bat is off at the office,” Joker explained, “and he won’t be back until seven. I thought it would be a lovely surprise for him if he came home to find the house already decorated, and all of his little bird and bat babies working together, and Jeeves agreed! So quick, get to work, and I expect you all to be wearing your lovely new sweaters when Brucie gets back. You’re going to look adorable!”

“Uh,” Dick said. 

Joker grinned at him. 

Dick closed his mouth and decided, wisely, to pick his battles. Decorating the Christmas tree with Joker and his adopted siblings was not exactly how he expected his evenings to go, but apparently, that was his life now. For better or worse.

Still, as he bent over to pick some of the less ugly ornaments — the ones without grinning faces on them — he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Joker was trying to creep them out on purpose, and having the time of his life.

“So, how many of those sweaters did you send?” he asked, seizing on that thought, because, well, turnabout was fair play.

“Lots!” Joker declared happily. “Do you like yours? I put extra effort into it, on account of the good old days.”

“Effort?” Dick frowned. He still remembered the socks Bruce had gotten last year. “You mean your own?”

“Well, all right, I told the tailor to put extra effort into it,” Joker confessed, and Dick breathed a sigh of relief. “The designs are all mine, though! I wonder how little Jason likes his.”

Yes, Dick rather wondered that too. He supposed they would find out soon enough. He pressed on, “So what about Barbara? Did you get one for _her_?”

Silence dropped on them, cold and tense. Dick looked straight into Joker’s too-bright eyes, and could feel Tim and Damian doing the same, all three of them, pressing at the ridiculous man in the middle like one person, all of them operating on the same wavelength for once. Dick could feel his jaw tense and the air spark, and didn’t relent.

Forgiveness was one thing. And they were _trying_ — all of them, even Jason. But some things would haunt them forever, and he still remembered the smell of the hospital and the quiet beep of life support by Barbara’s bed, or the grave that only by a miraculous twist of fate turned out to be empty. 

And the thing was, he knew they’d most likely never get an apology, because that wasn’t how Joker — even this new, house-broken Joker — worked. Bruce tried to explain it to him once, up on gray rainy rooftops. About empathy and remorse, or lack of it. About the Joker’s mind, and how it just didn’t grasp those concepts like they did. 

But Dick still wanted — something. Anything. And Bruce wasn’t here to interfere. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited. 

Joker regarded them all, eyes moving from one to the other, and his grin kind of — drained, for just a blink. The light in his eyes faded. He glanced down, for maybe half a second. And that was it — suddenly Dick knew Joker realized perfectly well what was going on. He’d _expected_ it. He’d _wanted_ this confrontation to play out, without Bruce.

Then he turned back to the tree,and the moment was gone. “Of course I got one for her!” he said. “She’s your sister, just like all the other baby bat girls. What kind of uncle would I be if I left anyone out? I got one for old Jimbo, too. Jeeves sent them by post.”

“And have they replied?” Dick asked.

“No,” Joker said easily, “but then I didn’t expect them to. Now, be a good Robin and put that one way up high, atta boy.”

He shoved one of the smiley baubles into Dick’s hands and patted him on the shoulder.

Dick locked eyes first with Tim, who shrugged, and then with Damian, who was frowning. Joker was watching him, and Dick thought he could detect sharp, tense anticipation under the veneer of Christmas cheer. He’d just put himself on trial for them, willingly, was waiting for a verdict, and somehow it fell on Dick to pass it. 

Maybe this entire decorating party was not just for Bruce’s benefit.

Right. Right.

Dick sighed, then put the ornament down on the floor. Joker’s face fell, for just a moment, before he saw Dick reaching for the box he’d brought with him. “In a moment,” Dick said, trying to ignore the way Joker’s face sort of _lit up_ , because that made him think of things he really really didn’t want to consider right now. “Tim’s wearing his, it’s only fair that I wear mine, too. Since we’re brothers and all.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Tim looking grateful, and Damian’s serious frown morphing into a more petulant expression that was pure sullen 10-year-old being forced to do something he didn’t want to. Joker laughed and clapped his hands as though Dick had just gotten _him_ a present, and jumped a little, and soon he was grabbing ornaments at random and flinging them at the tree as if they were batarangs, probably hoping some would stick. 

Dick put his Robin sweater on — his had an image of an actual robin wearing his old costume and carrying Nightwing’s stick in its beak — and grabbed the ornaments from the ground. 

Then, he leapt to the rafters to take care of the top of the tree. 

After all, it wasn’t as if being a part of Bruce’s family had ever been normal.


	11. Greatest Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an old prompt that I used as a writing warm-up.
> 
> Decided to go with the Rebirth version of Steve Trevor, who's alive in modern times. Background Lois/Clark.

As soon as the blinding light dissipated and Lois ascertained that, just as she had predicted, she found herself aboard an alien ship, she rolled her eyes and thought mournfully of the expensive macchiato grande she’d left on the table in the cafe.

That thing had still been half-full when the beam of light went and snatched her away. 

There was an alien with tentacles for a beard getting in her face now, spouting gurgly gibberish. She tried to move her arms. Bound, and by something a bit more solid than your average rope, too. Probably glowed. Those alien contraptions tended to.

She ignored Tentacles still gurgling away about something or other. She didn’t understand a sound, but by now she didn’t need to — she’d been kidnapped by aliens often enough to know the drill by now. She gave it a moment and smiled to herself when inevitably the alien mentioned Superman, the single word she recognized amid the nonsense. She was half-tempted to tell the creature that she was on a deadline and to arrange this for another time, but she had a feeling that Tentacles might not appreciate the merits of dry humor. Aliens rarely did.

Thankfully Tentacles and their slightly less impressively betentacled guards soon gurgled themselves out and left her to her own devices. She took the opportunity to look around and take stock of her surroundings, which didn’t offer much in the way of diverting decor — gray metal walls, gray metal floor. You’d seen one space prison hold, you’d seen them all. Still, this one had a tiny porthole up by the ceiling which showed her that she was, indeed, in deep space, and she sighed, dropping onto her ass against the wall. 

Great. She was going to have to reschedule that interview with Luthor again, and he was guaranteed to be sarcastic at her about it. Maybe even make her jump through some hoops to see him, which would be just like him. 

Petty bastard. 

Lois was in the middle of plotting contingency plans for when she’d finally be back on Earth and able to do her job again when another flash of light blinded her. When she blinked, clearing the dancing afterimages, it was to the sight of Steve Trevor groaning from where he’d been unceremoniously dumped on the floor. 

Huh. Interesting. So Tentacles was not just after Clark, but after Diana, too? That, Lois admitted, introduced a little bit of variety into the routine. Maybe after this all blowed over she and Diana could meet up for coffee. Lois perked up a bit at the thought.

“Hey,” she greeted Steve conversationally as the man hoisted himself to his knees. She craned her neck to sneak a glance at his back where his hands were tied, just like hers.

Yup, the bonds were glowing all right. Probably lasers. Purple, too, and Lois rolled her eyes again. Would alien kidnappers with better taste really be too much to ask?

Steve cast her a disgruntled look. “You, too?”

“Yup.”

“Dammit. I was in the middle of an op.” That would explain the khakis and the mud, then. Lois’s curiosity spiked, smelling prey.

“Where?”

“Nice try, Lane.” 

Lois shrugged. “We’ll probably be here a while. Talking would help pass the time. I’m guessing by the tank top it was somewhere warm. Africa?”

“You’re not tricking me into an exclusive while we’re being kidnapped by aliens,” Trevor told her decisively, and Lois shrugged again. She’d just try again in a few minutes. 

“They tell you what they want yet?” Trevor asked, casting inquisitive looks around him, no doubt looking for escape routes.

“Maybe. They gurgled it very loudly, at any rate. Sounded like a typical taking over the world monologue to me but I can’t be sure.”

“One of those, huh?”

“Afraid so.”

“Surveillance?”

“Gotta be. They wouldn’t leave us alone otherwise.”

“What did they look like? Did you recognize them?”

Lois opened her mouth to deliver some choice and, in her own opinion, witty lines involving Calamari when she was interrupted by a third beam of light blasting to life in the middle of the cell.

Ah. Right. She’d wondered if this would happen when they’d dropped Trevor beside her. Three’s the magic number, and she was curious to see who it’d be this time around. Her money was on Alfred Pennyworth or Catwoman, or possibly one of the kids. She was half tempted to offer Trevor to bet on it.

And then the beam died and she was suddenly very glad that she didn’t.

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” Trevor sputtered as on the floor, the Joker groaned but didn’t stir, and instead slumped there in his lime Arkham jumpsuit, eyes closed, mouth open, breath heavy.

“Sorry,” Trevor muttered, catching himself and glancing to Lois.

“No, no, be my guest,” Lois assured him; she was rather close to dropping f-bombs herself. “The situation absolutely warrants it.”

“I’d understand Catwoman,” Trevor said, and Lois couldn’t quite help the dry smirk tugging her mouth. “Or even Talia al Ghul, but him? Why the hell would the kidnap _him_?”

Lois shook her head, eyes narrowed, mind racing with speculation. Either those aliens were even less competent than average and slacked on their homework, or…

“Banking on Batman’s sense of justice?” she tried. She thought about it some more, and ventured, “He does have a bit of a history saving the Joker…”

“He’s got a bit of a history saving everyone. This guy’s nothing special,” Trevor pointed out. There was a vein pulsing above his left eye, and he sounded like he was nursing the mother of all headaches. Lois could sympathize.

“Right,” she said quietly as she studied the unconscious clown on the floor. “Strange.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

“No, I mean… none of us passed out,” Lois observes. “They catch you in a fight?”

“Nah. I was on a hill doing recon and then the beam of light just appeared and snatched me away.”

“Yeah.” Lois pursed her lips. “I didn’t even see it coming.”

“Maybe he’s just —”

The Joker stirred, and Lois promptly gathered her legs under herself and pressed up to the wall to get as far away from him as she could.

They watched in silence as the Joker groaned and opened one eye, then the other, glancing around with almost frantic pace. The eyes widened when they fell on the pair of them; Lois held the inquisitive gaze with as much composure as she could muster. She’d dealt with the man before. 

His initial assessment completed, Joker giggled softly at a joke only he understood. Then, he rolled onto his back. 

“Well,” he said speculatively. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

He wiggled a little, experimentally, testing his bonds. Then he craned his head to look at Lois and Trevor again, upside down, infamous grin in place. “I hate teleportation,” he announced cheerfully. “Tummy getting all queasy. Then again, that might just be the Arkham cuisine.” The grin widened as he waited for their reaction, and when none seemed to be forthcoming, he huffed and deflated on the floor. “I suppose you had to be there,” he murmured.

“Why,” Trevor asked very slowly, “are you here?”

“A most excellent question, Cap’n! Or is it lieutenant? Corporal?” A crease of doubt broke out between Joker’s green eyebrows. “Admiral? You don’t strike me as the sea-faring sort, so maybe not. General? But of course not, what am I thinking, that’d be far too bureaucratic for a man of action such as your fine self. Say, you _are_ the militant blue-eyed blond cherub clinging to the mighty and, might I say it, shapely knees of our most Wonderful Amazon?”

“Just answer the question, clown,” Trevor sighed with exhaustion Lois very much shared. “It’s a trap, isn’t it?”

“Most definitely, though if it is, it’s not one of mine.” 

“Oh come on,” Lois demanded, sharing a frustrated look with Trevor. “Why else would you be here?”

“Why indeed.” Joker tried to sit up, and managed to do it by the third try, swinging his legs comically for leverage. Then he executed a complicated series of maneuvers wiggling on his ass on the metal floor so that he’d be facing them, and settled quite comfortably against the wall across from them. He was tall enough, or the cell small enough, that his feet — clad in fluffy purple slippers which clashed desperately with his jumpsuit — nearly touched the opposite wall right between Lois and Trevor when he stretched out his legs. “Isn’t that quite the conundrum?” He mused aloud. “Superman’s infamous squeeze. Wonder Woman’s boytoy. And yours truly. Why, anyone’d think there’s been some sort of mistake!”

The sound of his laughter hurt Lois’s ears. She winced, and exchanged another look with Trevor.

“So you’re claiming you don’t know why they took you?”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Joker admitted easily. “They obviously took me to bait Batsy. The bigger picture though, I’ll allow, is something of a mystery. We’re in space, aren’t we?”

“Well spotted,” Lois minced. 

Joker nodded philosophically. “That presents a bit of a problem,” he muttered. Then, he brightened up again almost immediately. “Then again, I’d make a really good space pirate. Who’s up for an adventure?”

“And how do you propose we embark on it?” Trevor asked dryly. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re stuck in a cell.”

“A temporary setback,” Joker opined. “Hardly a challenge for the man who holds the record for the most escapes out of any of my fellow Arkham residents, if I do say so myself. And I have a little jokerly intuition that this right there might be the door.”

He nodded at the wall opposite the porthole, which had a small sliding window in it. Lois nodded. “They left through there. I expect they left someone guarding the door.”

Joker’s answering smile could only be described as lethal.

“Wonderful.” 

He hoisted himself up to his feet, balancing precariously with his hands bound behind his back. Then, he threw himself full-tilt at the door. “My good man!” he called into the slot. “Woman? Individual! Hello there! I want to speak to your manager!” 

“What do you think that’s going to accomplish?” Trevor wondered. “They must have cameras here. Probably translating tech, too. They’ll know you’re planning something no matter how much noise you’re making.”

“True,” Joker agreed. “But they took us three alive for a reason. And I imagine they won’t be too happy to learn that I’ll kill both of you, and then myself, if they don’t get us out of here right now.” 

Lois blinked. Beside her, Trevor stiffened. “What?”

“As I said.” Joker’s grin sharpened, slanted to one side. He jumped up and landed hard, and his ridiculous slippers produced twin blades from the soles. He kicked out and aimed one of them at Lois’s throat. “One.”

“You fucking —” Trevor tried to lunge, but Joker pivoted and aimed the blade at him instead. 

“Two,” he said. 

Light erupted in the middle of the room, and the air filled with outraged gurgling and flying tentacles. 

Joker’s grin turned serene as he leapt, impossibly fast, to kick his blade square between the eyes of the first approaching guard, spattering green, gooey blood onto the metal. 

“Three,” he giggled.

The murdered alien’s laser gun landed at Lois’s feet. 

“He’s mad,” Trevor whispered behind her. 

And then he too was a moving blur, head-butting into another of the tentacled monstrosities as Joker cackled and slashed around with the blades at his feet. There were shots, some of them close enough to singe Lois’s hair.

Prodigiously, in a stroke of what Lois suspected was a rubbing off of Joker’s supernatural luck, one of those shots ricocheted at just the right angle to hit her ugly purple laser cuffs and utterly disintegrate them.

Lois grinned and lunged for the gun at her feet. 

“Let me show you guys how it’s done.”

 

***

 

When the doors to the command center slid open and Clark, Diana and Bruce stepped in — all in costume, all visibly strained and apprehensive — Joker dropped his pilfered laser gun to the floor and leapt into Bruce’s arms with a jovial “Darling, I got you a space ship!”

Lois didn’t know if it was the force of surprise or something else entirely that made Bruce actually hold him up for a moment before he let Joker back to the floor. She didn’t care. Clark was gazing around with an expression of utter confusion, and Lois thought it was a rather fetching look on him.

“What —” He tried, and then tried again. “How —”

Lois walked up to him, balancing the alien gun over her shoulder, and patted his face. “It’s all under control.”

“What happened here?” Diana whispered, casting around at the collection of various tentacle parts and green goo splattered around everywhere. 

“The Joker happened,” Trevor explained rather sheepishly. “It’s a long story.”

“Is everyone all right?” Bruce asked, holding Joker at arm’s length and giving him a critical once-over. He touched Joker’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“One of the walking sushi nicked me,” Joker explained, “but not to worry, love, you should’ve seen the other guy.”

Bruce sighed. It was a good sigh, deep, weary, with years of expertise backing it up. Or so Lois imagined.

“Med bay,” he announced, grabbing Joker by the uninjured shoulder. “I trust you’ll take care of the rest,” he told Clark and Diana, who both nodded.

As they left, Bruce marching the Joker down the corridor where the heroes came from, Clark turned to Lois. 

“Okay,” he pleaded, “what exactly happened here? And why was the Joker kidnapped with you?”

“Still haven’t figured that one out,” Lois confessed. “Come on, let’s get back to your ship. It really is a long story and I’d rather not be telling it standing up to my ankles in alien guts.”

As they walked, stepping over things Lois would rather not look at, she told Clark the story of how the three of them took over the ship. It was a rather good story as far as stories went, full of shooting and running and fighting and overall badassery, and Clark took it relatively well… except for the part about Joker putting the knife to Lois’s throat.

“I don’t think he was actually going to kill me,” she mused. “It was just a ruse.”

“It’d better be,” Clark murmured darkly. 

Lois smiled. “Somewhere under all that green hair he’s gotta have enough sense to realize what you’d do to him if he tried.”

“Let’s hope so.” Clark shook his head, obviously lost. “But why _him_? I don’t get it. The aliens said that they captured our greatest weaknesses.”

“Weaknesses, huh?” Lois said softly, feeling warm. 

The smile Clark shot her — dopey, sheepish — made her feel warmer still, and for a moment, she forgot all about the Joker.

 

***

 

It was only later, when she volunteered to bring Bruce tea, that some of the mystery lifted. Lois was just about to enter the med bay when she noticed that the door was halfway open, and she could hear a pair of soft voices wafting out into the corridor.

“ — should’ve waited.” That was Bruce’s voice, low and softer than she’d ever heard it.

She stopped dead in her tracks, straining her ears, everything inside her hot on the alert. It was instinct. Her journalistic senses smelled blood in the water, and she couldn’t interrupt the conversation inside now even if she tried. 

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Joker was answering, just as softly.

“You killed —”

“Not all that many, considering. Just as many of them as I needed to get out. And it’s not like they’re people, anyway.”

“They’re sentient creatures.”

“They didn’t get my Chaplin references. You call that sentient?”

“J.”

Lois’s eyes narrowed. _J.?_

“ _Bruce_ ,” Joker huffed, and everything inside Lois went cold. 

Bruce didn’t seem worried, or even surprised, that Joker knew his real name. “I mean it. You shouldn’t have done any of it. Next time just wait until I get there, and…”

“No. You know that’s not my style.” 

“… don’t put yourself in danger.”

There was a moment of silence. 

“Oh, Batsy,” Joker whispered. “You say that like it’s a choice. You rotten hypocrite.”

There was another sound, quiet but unmistakable. Lois stared into the cup of tea in her hand, her heart slamming. 

Then, very slowly, and very, very quietly, she started to back away. Whatever was going on inside, she knew she didn’t want to see it. And she knew another thing, too: she would have to edit her account of the capture to, somehow, creatively diminish Joker’s involvement, or exclude it altogether depending on how much the aliens told the people on Earth and how much of it was public knowledge. The thought stung, and all of a sudden she wanted nothing more than to grab a laser gun and run back onto that alien ship, and shoot some more tentacles off the rotten things for accidentally giving her the story of the century that she couldn’t even print.

For one thing, no one would ever believe her.


End file.
